Once the food had all been eaten and the wine drunk, the evening stretched late into the night with performances that continued to amaze her. Somewhere before midnight, Lamant pushed back from the seat and declared he wanted a final shot of Ginjinha—a tart cherry liquor, he stated, that was made best by a woman he knew in Alfama—before falling into America’s embrace.
As they wound their way into the heart of the medieval area, Ava lost herself in the convivial spirit, forgetting Lukas. Instead, she found herself entranced by the stars winking from above the narrow alleys, beyond the strings stretched between the buildings dotted with remnants of paper flowers from the St. Anthony’s Festival several months before.
They stopped below blue-painted shutters where Lamant called to Senhora Ferreira, whom he deemed to be the kindest woman in Alfama. The older woman opened the shutters with a smile, revealing a neat apartment behind her lace curtains. She poured them all a bit of red liquor into small chocolate cups for a few escudos. Her eyes filled with tears as Lamant bid her goodbye, clearly another person whose life had been impacted by the insightful Frenchman.
As the last of the chocolate cup dissolved on Ava’s tongue, about all she could manage to stuff into her overfull stomach, she shook Ethan’s hand and embraced Lamant in a final farewell. “Remember to always look past the page, ma chérie,” he said to her before kissing each cheek and leaving the scent of his spicy cologne lingering on her sweater.
The following day he would be on a ship bound for America, whose shores would offer him a safety that was only tenuous at best in Lisbon. He would escape the fear of Nazi observation and the threat of the PVDE. After nearly a year of being twisted in the broken visa system, he was going to be free.
“Did you like listening to fado?” James asked as he led their way through the starlit streets of a now quiet Alfama.
“It was moving,” Ava said.
“It isn’t common for most refugees to enjoy the sadness of it. Not when they have enough sorrow already.”
Ava nodded in understanding. “Lamant sees things differently than others.”
“Which is why I knew you two would get on well.” James tossed her a grin.
Clipped footsteps sounded behind them. James put a hand to her lower back, nudging her to walk a little faster. Not that she needed the encouragement. The steps mingling with theirs in the thin, October night air held a note of authority and importance. This was no drunk staggering home from a late night of imbibing.
James turned abruptly down a narrow alley, then up a flight of stairs and through another slender alley. Lukas entered Ava’s thoughts once more. How he had shown up that night, how he’d been so fixedly watching her.
Though Portugal was neutral, it did not mean an undercurrent of clandestine activity didn’t happen beneath the government’s nose. Nazis still found ways of making people disappear.
James pulled Ava into an alcove, so her back was against the wall, and he was covering her with his own body. They were face-to-face. Close. His features half-shadowed, his eyes dark in the late night, his jaw smooth from a recent shave.
But he wasn’t studying her as she was him. His head was tilted, tense as he strained to listen.
Footsteps echoed in the distance. Whoever chased them knew Alfama as well as James.
“It’s the PVDE,” he whispered.
His attention shifted and suddenly he was noticing her, his eyes sweeping over her face like a caress. He lifted his hand and let his fingertips whisper over the edge of her chin.
Ava’s pulse quickened and left her head spinning.
The footsteps grew louder.
“Kiss me,” James said.
She gazed up at him in surprise. She hadn’t kissed a man before. Her studies had occupied her life, and then the library and the war effort. Men’s advances had always come on too strongly, their eagerness so plain, it left a wariness in her veins and a refusal on her tongue.